Our Acts Our Angels Are
by paperbkryter
Summary: Take a little bit of this and that from Season 11, throw it all together, add a deer, push puree, and this is what you get. (I am so sorry Sam, you drew the straw again.) Anybody who lives anywhere in rural America and travels a lot knows that eventually your luck is going to run out when it comes to close encounters with wildlife. This time Bambi commits suicide by Impala.


_Our acts our angels are, for good or ill, our fatal shadows that walk by us still._

– John Fletcher 1579-1625

* * *

It wasn't a demon, or a witch, or any other monster, nor was it a freak meteorological disturbance. Nobody got stabbed, or shot, or choked on a cheeseburger, and no killer virus was contracted. What brought the Winchester brothers down, what sent them spiraling toward an unexpected conference with Reapers and an appointment with the Empty, was so commonplace its sudden appearance could have almost, in their case, been considered supernatural.

It was Bambi.

Hundreds of thousands of miles along dark country roads should have prepared them, but on this road, on this night, the odds finally caught up with the old Chevy Impala. Sam and Dean were doing what they always did on their way to a case – reviewing the information they knew from news and police reports, and looking into the encyclopedia of lore to find a possible monster match. Sam read, Dean listened, and neither one were paying as much attention to the road as they probably should have. They both trusted Dean's instincts. This night, however, Dean's mind was far away, occupied with thoughts of a woman – Amara, the Darkness, God's bitter sister who he and Sam had released upon the world. On this night Dean's instincts failed him.

Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw movement. His brother's name had barely left his mouth when the Impala's headlights intersected the large, solid shape of a buck deer as it bounded onto the road. Dean slammed his foot down on the brake and twisted the wheel, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The car shuddered as it barreled into the living obstacle. The doomed animal flew over the Chevy's long hood and thudded into the windshield, shattering the safety glass into a thousand opaque facets. Thus blinded, Dean wrenched the steering wheel around the other direction, and shouted, "Hold on!"

It was November. The rain they'd run into earlier remained on the roadway as a thin sheet of semi-frozen slush. The Chevy's tires spun. Dean cursed under his breath when they failed to find purchase. The passenger's side of the car slammed into a guardrail on one side of the road and bounced off, skidding around toward the opposite side. Dean heard the muffled thud of Sam's head hitting the window and he fought desperately to bring the car back under control. His quick glance to see if his brother was all right cost him dearly. His foot slipped off the brake, hit the accelerator, and the Impala's right front wheel left the roadway.

The rest of the car followed, punching through a guardrail, screaming down a steep hill, bouncing off of trees and rocks until finally she became airborne. Her big block engine roared in protest. Clumps of dirt and moss flew in the air as the big black car flipped and tumbled until, with a reverberating crash, she landed upside down at the bottom of a ravine. Her roar became a cough before it sputtered and died. One wheel spun slowly for two turns and then stopped. Everything went silent, save for the liquid trickle of a stream, and the cooling tick of the Chevy's engine.

* * *

He tasted blood, he was freezing cold, and everything hurt like hell.

 _Doctor, doctor, it hurts when I do this…._

 _Well don't do that!_

Dean took the doctor's advice and didn't move for a good long time. Instead he lay very still, concentrating on breathing, because his chest hurt like nobody's business. He was familiar with that feeling, and diagnosed a broken rib, maybe several. His ankle was throbbing too. The left arm was good, if just numb from where he was lying on it, but he suspected the right was toast. With a groan he rolled onto his back and lay there panting until the feeling came back to his left hand. Gingerly he ran his fingers down from his right shoulder, noting the stickiness of blood, and nearly blacking out when he brushed across the hard edge of a bone jutting out beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

He cursed colorfully and waited until the pain and dizziness abated before slowly opening his eyes. They burned, his eyelashes felt gluey and stiff. Dean carefully wiped his face with the sleeve on his good arm. Blood came away with it, the source of which, probing with cautious fingers determined, was a slash across his forehead, just at the hairline. It had bled badly, like a crimson waterfall, all down his face and Dean could only imagine what he must look like. He left the cut alone. It wasn't bleeding now and it would do him no good to get it started again. Instead he painfully levered himself up into a sitting position. He was still a little foggy on what had happened.

A vague memory finally wriggled forth and he remembered losing control of the car. It had gone into a spin, been flung off the road. Dean looked around. It had been night when they crashed, and now the pitch black had begun to grey as night grew closer to dawn. He saw he was sitting on a slope among a mass of trees and thick underbrush. Fallen leaves, damp with dew, had laid down a slippery carpet beneath him. Nearby a small tree had been snapped off at its base, others, larger, sported large gouges as if some large animal had taken a bite out of them. Several bushes had been crushed, and incongruously, scattered all around him, were bits of metal, glass, and guns.

Guns?

Not only were there guns, but knives, wooden stakes, a silver flask, and dangling from a low branch nearby – a rosary. It was a debris field of death. The Impala's trunk must have come open. Its contents were now strewn all over the wooded slope where Dean sat.

But where was the car? More importantly, where was Sam?

"Sam?" Dean's voice came out as a breathy rasp. He swallowed and tried again. "Sam!"

There was no answer. Dean squinted in the grey light. He was about halfway up the slope. Looking up he could not see the road, only a twisted piece of guardrail high above him. He looked further down to where the leaf-carpeted ground gave way to a short bank, which then dropped down to a stream. More debris littered the slope. Glass glittered, and there, slightly off to the left, was the Impala's front bumper. It had hooked itself on a tree, and had been wrenched from the car. Dean's heart pounded in his chest as he began feeling the first signs of panic.

"Sam!" He tried to stand, slid a little way down the slope, and stopped. Giving up on that course of action, he eased himself downward on his ass instead, bracing himself with his good arm and the uninjured ankle. As he came closer to the edge of the bank he saw a large, dark mass looming up before him.

Dean clung to a tree root so he wouldn't slip, mindful of the drop off. It was a short drop, only a couple of feet, but with gravity and momentum he'd still hurt himself. He took it slowly. Losing control, sliding down the slope any faster, and the edge of the bank would act like a ramp. He'd go flying off and land in the stream, or, worse, slam into the car, for lying at the bottom of the deep ravine, in the middle of the shallow stream, was the Impala.

"Oh, Baby…."

She was upside down, beat all to Hell, with one headlight still valiantly shining through the waning darkness. The trunk hung open like a gaping maw. The driver's side door had been ripped off. Every window was shattered and missing. Water ran around and through her crushed roof before continuing along its route as if having a car in its path was no big deal.

Dean noticed two things almost simultaneously. Within the light of her single headlamp he saw a dark streak in the water. At first he thought it was motor oil, but he quickly realized it was lighter than oil, and he could make out a reddish tint. It was blood. Just as that realization hit him he saw something which sent a chill down his spine. There, sticking out through a narrow gap that had once been a rear window was a bloody hand, its long, limp fingers trailing in the water.

"SAM!"

It took several long, agonizing minutes for Dean to get himself down the rest of the slope and over the drop off. On the way down he found a tree branch, and used that as a crutch as he finally stood on his two feet in the sandy soil at the water's edge. It was difficult to manage with only one functioning arm, but eventually he was able to hobble to the side of the car.

The smell of blood mingled with the sharp scent of gasoline. Dean levered himself down so he could peer inside the car, trying to stay as dry as he could. The stream only came up to his ankles, and he figured the cold water would probably help his sprain, but getting the rest of his clothes wet could be a death sentence. The November days weren't terribly bad in Pennsylvania, but going into nightfall being cold and wet, that was another story. Hypothermia was a real and serious danger.

For a brief moment Dean harbored the fear of finding nothing but his brother's severed hand, but as he looked inside he could see Sam's bulk taking up what remained of the Impala's back seat. The back portion of the front seat had collapsed forward when the roof caved in. The back seat itself had been partially dislodged from its bolts and was hanging down on one side, pinning Sam's legs. One arm was folded beneath him. The outstretched arm had saved him from drowning, holding his head up just enough that the water flowing around him through the shattered back window did not reach his nose and mouth.

There was a lot of blood. It ran from Sam's nose and stained his lips, the back of his jacket was splattered with it, and his hair was a sodden, sticky mess of blood-caked tangles. His face was deathly pale beneath the crimson smudges and streaks. His lips had a faint blue tinge, but he was still breathing, and when Dean reached in to search for a pulse, he groaned.

"Sammy? Can you hear me?"

Sam stirred. His head fell forward into the water. The shock of cold water rushing over his face brought him back to his senses. He came up spluttering and coughing. His eyes were open, if only a little glazed. He squinted out at Dean as if trying to bring him into focus and after a moment managed to find his voice.

"Dean? What…." He moaned. "I can't…"'

"Don't move. You're pinned in the car."

"The…car?" Sam's brow furrowed. He tried to turn his head to look toward the front of the car. "Dad?" He croaked. "Where's Dad?"

"Your bell got rung, that's for sure," Dean murmured. "He's fine. Just don't move, okay. I'm going to try to get you out."

Using the car for support, Dean moved around to the other side. There was no way he could pull Sam out from the driver's side, even with one door missing. It had been crushed too badly. There was only about an eight inch gap through the rear side window where Sam lay, and the driver's window was blocked by the broken front seat. Getting Sam out through the back window was not even a remote possibility.

Dean found more room on the passenger's side. He also found Sam's other half, and moaned softly to himself as he surveyed the damage. Sam's legs were pinned between the edge of the rear seat and the Impala's roof at the thighs. Blood soaked the right leg of his jeans above the knee. Below the knee the right leg was slightly bowed where it shouldn't have been. Sam's left leg wasn't much better. His boot was missing, his sock was stained crimson with blood and, Dean noticed with some horror, might be the only thing keeping his foot attached to the rest of his leg - the ankle had been crushed.

"Dammit!" Dean felt his heart constrict. "Sam…."

He struggled with indecision. He could barely walk, so hiking out for help was out of the question. He couldn't call for help either. His phone was gone; he knew that instinctively because he'd had it sitting on the dashboard. It could be anywhere in the mass of debris from the wreck, the sodden leaves, and undergrowth. Looking for it would be futile and even if he found it, there was no guarantee it would work. Sam kept his phone in his back pocket. It was likely still there, and possibly undamaged. However, Dean couldn't get to it unless he freed Sam from the car.

There was the biggest dilemma. If he left Sam where he was, lying in the cold water of the stream, it was a toss-up as to whether he would die of hypothermia, shock, blood loss, or a combination of all three, but he _would_ die. If Dean could lever the back seat off of his brother's legs, he could pull Sam out from the passenger's side. It could damage both of them further, without a doubt it would be agonizing for Sam, but Dean could at least get him warm and dry.

Dean turned his head up toward the sky. It was nearly daylight. The bare branches of the trees stretched out like knobby fingers toward the sun.

"Cas!" he called hoarsely. Castiel was still recovering from Rowena's mad dog spell. Could he still hear prayer? If he could, he still couldn't teleport. It would take him more than a day to get to them by car, even if he could find their exact location. "Cas, we're in trouble. You need to get to us now!"

He had to get Sam out of the car. He moved around to the driver's side. Sam had his head back down on his arm, still conscious, but fighting for it. At the sound of his name he turned his eyes in Dean's direction but didn't move.

"Sammy, listen to me. You're hurt bad, but you can't stay here. I'm going to have to move you and brother, it's gonna hurt like Hell. "

Sam's eyes had resumed a glazed look that Dean didn't like. He didn't respond at all.

"Sam!" Dean barked. "You have to help me. I've only got one good arm. I'm going to get your legs free, but you're going to have to push yourself out backward while I pull. Can you do that? "

Raising his head slightly, Sam finally blinked, and some clarity returned to his gaze. He licked his lips. "Yeah," he whispered. "I got it." His eyes met Dean's. "Is it bad?"

Dean hesitated, and settled for the truth. "Yeah, it's bad."

"Okay," Sam said, very slowly, as having to think about every word. "Get me out of here. I'll push, you pull."

Dean rounded the car again, this time carrying the branch he'd been using as a crutch with him. It took him a moment to figure out the logistics, and then he got to work maneuvering the branch inside the car to lever the broken seat off of Sam's legs. The old wood strained under the weight of the big bench seat, but it held. Dean wedged it in good between the car's frame and the front seat to hold everything in place. Sam would have just enough room to get his head and shoulders beneath it. There was just enough room for Dean to wriggle in and get a good hold of Sam's belt with one hand. He didn't dare touch the broken legs.

"You still with me, Sammy?"

Dean barely heard the whispered, "Yes."

"Okay. On the count of three I'm going to pull. I need you to push yourself up and back, okay? No screwing around." As he spoke, Dean shifted around and located Sam's phone. He put it in his inside jacket pocket where it would hopefully stay dry until they were both free of the stream.

"One."

Sam got both hands beneath him. He glanced back at Dean with a grim expression.

"Two."

Dean pressed the knee of his bad leg into the roof of the car, and dug the toes of his other leg into the bottom of the stream just outside the window.

"Three!"

Sam gave himself a massive push backward with a strength Dean hadn't thought he'd be able to muster. At the same time Dean pulled back as hard as he could, using his knee as leverage. As he'd predicted, it hurt Sam badly. When his broken legs were moved by their efforts he let out an agonized scream that pierced Dean's heart like a knife. He almost stopped, but forced himself to continue, blanking out the sound of his brother shrieking in pain as he gave another yank on Sam's belt and maneuvered him back through the window. By the time they were free of the car, and Dean fell backward onto the sandy bank, Sam had passed out. With his own broken bones crying out for him to stop, Dean managed to drag Sam even further. Panting with effort, he made sure they were clear of the cold water before collapsing himself. Darkness swallowed his senses. He sank back into the dirt with a groan.

He had no idea how long he was out. He woke to see the sun high in the sky, its warming rays beaming down on him through the tree branches. Sam was still unconscious and still lying in the position he'd been in when Dean blacked out – half on his side, body curled into a crescent, and his head in the dirt. His hair had fallen over his face. Dean couldn't tell if he were dead or alive.

He hastened to check. Finding Sam was indeed alive and breathing Dean rolled him onto his back, trying not to move his legs too much. Sam moaned a little but did not wake.

"Yeah, you might not want to be awake," Dean told him. "Not until we get you some morphine at least."

A bit unsteadily he pushed himself to his knees, and then to his feet. The sun had dried their clothes, but it was still cold. Dean hobbled over to the car, once again feeling a bit of relief when the cold water sluiced over his damaged ankle. He bent over to look up into the trunk, and hope flared when he discovered Sam's duffle wedged into the very back, and behind that, an old woolen blanket. Dean kept the blanket around to lay on when he had to do any work beneath the car. It was rumpled and dirty but it would be warm.

He limped back to the bank with his treasures. It would have been nice to find their first aid kit, but Dean was happy with what he got. He covered Sam with the blanket before taking care of himself. Gingerly stripping off his jacket so he wouldn't jostle his arm, he added one of Sam's shirts over the two he already wore before donning the jacket again. Encouraged by his find, and warmed by the extra layer, Dean waded across the stream again and managed to get himself up the bank.

From among the debris he recovered a gun, feeling too naked without one. He had Ruby's demon killing knife which had miraculously remained in its sheath at Sam's belt, but felt more secure with a gun at his side. Dean also found a machete wedged into a tree root and took that too, along with the silver flask of holy water and the rosary. The water was for them to drink; he didn't trust the water in the stream, not knowing its origin and the fact it was now tainted with oil and gasoline. The rosary - well, he had to reluctantly admit, that just made him feel better.

His first priority was warmth. He gathered wood and some dry leaves and built a fire near where Sam lay. Dean knew they were miles from civilization but if someone came by on the road, or a deer hunter wandered out of the woods, the fire might be noticed. So far, however, Dean had heard no cars pass up above them. He had contemplated attempting to climb back up to the road and wait for someone to come by, but did not want to risk it, and he could not leave Sam.

After getting the fire going, Dean tore one of Sam's shirts into strips. He bound up his sprained ankle, and made a sling for his broken arm before grimly addressing Sam's obvious injuries. They'd been banged up a lot, and badly, over the years but never with multiple injuries like this. Dean did what he could to splint Sam's right leg, broken in at least two places, but was afraid to do much to his left foot. He carefully bound it up inside another t-shirt to staunch the bleeding but otherwise left it alone. Turning his attention to the head wound, Dean found a good sized gash above Sam's right ear and a lump at his temple. A severe concussion was a given. Dean didn't think there was a skull fracture, but couldn't know for sure. Sam needed to wake and be coherent before Dean could dismiss it.

Dean dampened a piece of cloth and cleaned Sam's face. His nose was broken. Both eyes were already starting to blacken. The blood in his mouth was due to a split lip, not internal bleeding as Dean had first feared, but that was something Dean also couldn't dismiss. If Sam had been thrown around so violently during the Impala's trip down into the ravine he had broken his legs there could easily be internal injuries. Dean just couldn't tell.

That thought reminded him of the phone which had also taken the tumble. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen half expecting it to be as shattered as Sam. Luck was on his side. The phone's case was cracked but the phone itself was intact and working. Not surprisingly there was only a faint signal, not enough for him to make a call or text. With a sigh Dean turned on the GPS and hoped Castiel had heard him. He wondered if the angel had _not_ heard him, how long it would be before Cas got worried and started looking for them on his own.

If it were too long, Sam didn't stand a chance.

Dean sat down by the fire to dry his boots. He wanted to make sure both of them were warm and dry before night set in and the temperatures dropped. His body ached, his head was pounding, and he struggled to remain conscious himself. If a car came by he needed to hear it, even if he had no way to signal it. He found himself losing the battle. Just as he felt his head start to sink toward his chest, however, he heard Sam moan. His eyes popped open. He edged over to where Sam lay.

"Sammy?"

Sam turned his head slightly. He raised a hand to it when the movement caused him to wince in pain. His fingers were trembling. He looked up at Dean in obvious confusion. "Dean?"

"Don't try to move."

"Where….what happened?" Despite Dean's warning he tried to sit up but fell back immediately with a cry. "God…."

"I told you not to move. You're banged up pretty good."

"What happened?" Sam repeated.

"We had an accident."

A line appeared across Sam's forehead. "Accident," he whispered. "Dad….." His eyes widened. "Where's Dad? The demon…."

"Whoa, calm down…." Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder, trying to remain calm himself. "You bashed your head, Sammy. You're thinking about another accident. That was years ago. Dad's gone, the demon is dead. You don't remember?"

"I….I don't…." Sam lay back again. Dean had put the duffle bag behind his head as a pillow. "I hit my head?"

"I hit Bambi, you hit your head, and the car hit the bottom of a ravine."

Sam groaned and muttered a curse. "A deer? We got taken down by a damn deer?"

Dean grimaced. "We'll say it was possessed – a weredeer, very rare, very dangerous."

"I don't remember." Sam moaned. "I can't think. It hurts - God, my leg. It hurts so bad."

"I know, but you've got to hang on, okay? I put out a call to Cas…."

"Hmmm….Cas…Castiel."

"Yeah, you remember Cas, right Sammy? Rumpled looking guy, kind of nerdy, wears a trenchcoat?" Dean examined Sam's face carefully. His eyes still looked unfocused. His mouth was taut with pain and his cheeks were still much too pale. "I prayed. He's probably already on his way, and we'll get you to a hospital, easy peasy. Just stay with me, Sam. You'll be okay."

"Hurts," Sam murmured. He closed his eyes. "Dad'll be pissed you wrecked the car."

"Sam?"

Sam didn't reply. Dean tucked the blanket more firmly around him and checked his pulse. It was weak but steady and he appeared to be breathing okay. He checked the phone; still no service, and the battery was getting low.

"Dammit Cas, hurry your ass up and find us!"

Dean fed the fire. He'd gathered more wood, enough to get them through the night, hoping and praying they wouldn't need it. The pain in his arm was making it hard for him to rest comfortably, not to mention his anxiety over Sam, but he knew he needed at least a few minutes of sleep. Folding up a pair of jeans for a pillow, he laid down next to Sam. The soft sound of his brother's breathing eased some of Dean's anxiety and it wasn't long before exhaustion and the lump on his own head dragged him down into the dark.

He woke with a start several hours later. It was fully dark, and cold. Dean was shivering despite the extra layer he'd put on, and he could see his breath. Every joint was stiff. His arm was badly swollen and throbbing with a deep, unrelenting pain. He had a headache. Groaning, he sat up and stirred up the embers of their fire, adding leaves and more wood to get it blazing again. He took a sip of water from the flask. It was hard to keep from drinking it all.

Sam was conscious but still not lucid. He was feverish and eagerly gulped down the water Dean gave him. He wanted more. Dean let him have it, all of it. As he laid his head back down Sam asked again what had happened. Dean patiently told him. This time Sam knew their father was dead but begged Dean not let Lucifer take him. It wouldn't be long, Dean thought, before Sam's pain and fever ravaged mind took the leap back into Hell. That would be the end of him.

Dean sat by the fire. How long had it been since the accident? He couldn't say precisely, not knowing how much time he'd lost during his periods of unconsciousness. It couldn't have been more than twenty-four hours, and that was long enough. Sam was going downhill rapidly, and Dean didn't like how he was starting to feel either. He couldn't seem to get warm and his arm was swelling alarmingly inside his sleeve. Neither of them would last another twenty-four hours, Sam maybe less. There was no sign of Cas, no car had gone down the road since the Impala left it. Dean was beginning to lose hope.

"Cas!"

His voice echoed down the ravine.

"Castiel!"

He sighed, and then sucked in a breath as he caught movement out in the darkness. He drew his gun. The shadow he'd seen had been near the car, which Dean could see only as a hulking black shape in the middle of the stream, her one headlight slowly growing dimmer as it drained her battery. Were there predators in this part of Pennsylvania? No wolves for sure, maybe a cougar? Certainly there were coyote, and quite possibly bears. Anything would be drawn in by the smell of blood. Dean thumbed off the gun's safety, aiming into the darkness, trying desperately to keep his hand from shaking.

"Who's there?" he demanded. "Come out where I can see you!"

Idiot, he thought, as if a bear would understand him.

It wasn't a bear.

She stepped out of the darkness into the halo of the Impala's fading headlight and just stood there staring at him. It was a little girl, thin and bedraggled, with long, tangled hair the color of sand, and large blue eyes. She wore a grubby white tee shirt that hung on her like a dress all the way past her knees; no shoes. She had to have been freezing, yet even with icy water flowing over her bare feet she seemed not to notice the cold.

Dean slowly lowered the gun. "Hi," he said softly. With her wide-eyed stare and stiff shoulders he feared she might bolt before he got any information out of her. Was there a farm or cabin nearby? Had she wandered off from a campsite? She was definitely too young to be traipsing around in the woods by herself.

The girl flinched at the sound of his voice, but did not run away. Instead she came closer, carefully picking her way across the pebbles at the bottom of the stream and onto the soft, dry soil at its edge. She stopped at the perimeter of Dean's fire and continued to stare at him with her luminous blue eyes unblinking. She was a pretty little thing beneath the dirty smudges on her face and her tangled hair, and couldn't be more than six or seven years old. The word that popped into Dean's head to describe her was "waif" for she was pale and thin and delicately built.

"Are you lost?" Dean asked.

She said nothing, but blinked slowly and turned her gaze toward Sam.

"That's my brother. He's hurt. We need help. Do you live around here?"

Her eyes flickered past Sam to the opposite bank, where the trees grew larger and closer together, and the underbrush was thick and untouched by human hands. In this rural area the forest could stretch for miles before it opened up again onto a farm or town. Dean vowed never to attempt one of his father's old shortcuts again. Garmin would be his new god.

"Do you see something?" he asked hopefully. "Is there something out there, your mom or dad, maybe?"

The child looked back at him, still mute.

Dean was beginning to wonder if she wasn't a ghost. He knew from experience they could appear as real as a living person, and this strange child appeared real enough. Her small feet had left prints in the sand. If she was a spirit they were in trouble. He had no iron and no salt.

"My Father is gone," she said finally, in a small, barely audible voice. "I have been searching for him."

As she spoke Dean could see her breath in the cold air. She was real then. Ghosts didn't breathe.

"So you _are_ lost."

"No," she replied, taking another step closer. "I am a seeker. It is you who is lost." She cocked her head to one side. "I felt something of Him in you."

The fire flickered. Its light caught her eyes and they shone with an eerie blue fire Dean had seen before many times. This was not a little girl, not really, nor was she a ghost.

"You're an angel."

He felt a surge of anger. Why had this angel chosen a child as its vessel? Dean had never seen nor heard of such a thing, discounting the one time Castiel had possessed Claire Novak, and of course there was Lilith. But Lilith had been a demon. He wouldn't put it past a demon, but angels weren't such dicks they would do this to a little girl, were they?

"Her life was freely given, a very, very long time ago," she said, sensing his thoughts and making Dean stiffen at the unwelcome intrusion. "I pursued my Father here. I have spent ages searching …." Her voice trailed off. The fire left her eyes. She regarded Dean solemnly. "The Darkness seeks him too." She cocked her head again, frowning. "You carry Her with you. How can that be?"

"I wish I knew," Dean murmured.

Sam suddenly cried out. Heedless of his own injuries, Dean quickly moved over to check on him. He was still unconscious, drenched in sweat, tossing his head back and forth with pain etched into his features. One hand had fallen out from beneath the blanket. His fingers clawed spasmodically into the dirt until, with a gasp, he shuddered and was still again. Dean turned to the angel beseechingly.

"Can you help him?"

She had approached quietly until she stood at Dean's shoulder gazing down at Sam with an unreadable expression. "He is dying," she said bluntly.

"No…."

"I can feel it. His Guide is near, waiting…." She nodded toward the darkened wood.

That chilled Dean to the bone. She could only be talking about a Reaper. He could see nothing, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.

"Please. I'm begging you, help him!"

The words caught in his throat, tangling in a sob. Dean Winchester did not readily beg for anything from anyone, but then Sam had never been just anything, and for Sam he was never too proud to beg. Losing his brother felt like losing a piece of himself, and lately Dean had come to believe it was the only part worth saving. He couldn't lose Sam again, not and keep living. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

 _There ain't no me if there ain't no you._

"Please…"

The angel stared at him as if searching for something in his face. She reached out and touched his cheek with one small, soft hand, wiping away a tear with a gentle caress of her thumb. Dean instantly felt a sense of calm rush through him. He turned his face up to her, falling into her wide blue eyes as if he were leaping into a bright summer sky with no parachute to save him. He saw then that she was not a healer of body, but of heart and mind. It wasn't that she wouldn't help Sam, but that she was unable to do so. Though it was vast, this was not within the power she'd been given; she could not keep death at bay.

 _Sam…._

Kneeling before her, Dean was robbed of all his defenses. His walls all came tumbling down, revealing what he never let show, afraid it would make him weak, things he hid even from himself, buried so deep they were almost forgotten. She looked past the dark scars left from Hell, and the Mark of Cain, past all the anger he'd built up inside him when forced to deny his fears and take up arms instead. She saw down deep to his very core, and there she found what she sought.

It was there she found the sweet, sensitive child he had once been, before a demon robbed him of everything he'd ever loved. Azazel, the yellow-eyed demon, had taken it all: his mother, his father, his home, his future, and in a sense, even his very identity. Everything was gone, except for the one thing he had vowed to protect forever, that he could _never_ let go of even if it cost him his soul.

And this was his soul in its purest form, stripped down to nothing but a child's simple, innocent feelings of love and devotion.

The little girl stepped back, and smiled at him, a brilliant, beautiful smile. Despite the tangled hair and grimy tee-shirt, she was nothing short of angelic, and although he could not see them, Dean felt the rush of air as her wings swept over him.

"What is lost," she whispered, "shall be found."

In the next moment she was gone, and Dean, feeling as if every emotion known to man had just been brutally wrung out of him, sank back down to the ground. He slept then, peacefully, tears still staining his cheeks, all through the night and well into morning.

When he woke he found himself curled up close to Sam for warmth. He didn't move for a long time, listening to the sound of Sam breathing, simply savoring the fact his brother was still alive. Alive, but radiating a worrisome heat, and he remained unconscious, which was not entirely a bad thing. Dean was in agony and if he felt so bad he knew Sam would feel even worse.

He propped himself up on his good arm. The fire had gone out. The air was bitterly cold, and frost glittered on every surface. The Impala's sleek black skin appeared grey beneath a sheath of ice crystals. For the first time since the accident Dean rued the loss of his car, their home for so many years. They could never get her up out of the ravine and it would take him months to rebuild her even if they did, and such time Dean didn't have to spare. Amara was growing stronger every day and Dean, even at a distance, could feel her anger and frustration building as God continued to elude her.

The peace the child angel had left with him began to ebb, making way for despair. Sam wouldn't last much longer, definitely not another night out in the cold. When he was gone Dean would be free to hobble his way back to the road to civilization, and help, but he wasn't sure if he could. His gun lay in the dirt beside the fire. Dean regarded it with a sigh. No. He would never leave Sam. If the Reapers were determined to send him into the Empty, whatever that was, Dean wouldn't let him go there alone.

It was quiet in the ravine. The stream trickled soothingly. Somewhere a bird broke into song. Dean closed his eyes and listened. He opened them again at a sound that didn't belong in concert with trickling water and singing birds. It was the deep rumble of a car on the road far above them.

"Hey!" Dean painfully levered himself to his feet. His voice was hoarse. It wouldn't carry all the way to the road, or over the sound of the car's engine. "Hey! Wait!" He scooped up the gun and quickly fired it, three times in rapid succession, hoping the driver would not mistake the sound for a hunter's rifle and ignore it.

The rumbling stopped abruptly. Dean limped over to the Impala and squinted up toward the roadway far above where there had to be evidence of a serious accident – a broken guardrail, shattered glass, a skid mark on the pavement, a dead deer. Through the trees he saw a flash of yellow, and heard the squeak-bang of a door opening and closing.

"Down here!" Dean waved his good arm. "Hey!"

"Dean?"

And there appeared, at the top of the slope, a dark haired man looking as if he'd slept in, and just crawled out of bed wearing, a natty old trench coat. He examined the broken guardrail with a frown and then turned to squint down at Dean.

"Cas," Dean breathed, and slumped against the sad wreckage of his beloved Baby.

"Are you okay?" Castiel asked.

"Do I look like I'm okay?"

"It's hard to say at this distance."

Dean rolled his eyes heavenward as if inquiring of God why his guardian angel had to test his patience at every turn. "Cas…."

"I'm coming down."

"Be careful, it's slip…"

There was a hoarse yelp, followed by the sound of rustling leaves as Castiel lost his footing and came rolling down the slope as if reenacting the accident with himself in the role of the car. He hit the drop off and fell with a loud, "oomph" into the sandy bank at Dean's feet. Dean shook his head as the angel stood up, dusted himself off, and looked up at the slope with a great deal of disdain, as if he would smite it if he could for making him look foolish. He continued to look foolish as he approached Dean with his customary dour expression; there were leaves sticking out of his hair.

Dean felt a surge of pity as he reflected back on the warrior angel he had first encountered years ago in an abandoned hangar, the angel who had fought off demons of every ilk to pull Dean's sorry ass out of Hell. That angel was presently on semi-permanent leave, and although Dean felt slightly guilty about his own role in Castiel's corruption, Cas didn't seem to miss the bad-ass version of himself much at all.

Not that Cas couldn't one day just switch it on again and scare the crap out of him, Dean reflected, watching the angel pull a pinecone out of his pocket. At full strength Castiel was only one rank shy of archangel, and archangels weren't anything to screw around with; Dean knew this from experience.

"Welcome to the party," he said. "Did I interrupt a binge?"

"Game of Thrones," Castiel intoned gravely, tossing the pinecone over his shoulder. "Joffrey is an ass."

"Good to know."

Castiel lent him a supporting arm as they made their way to Sam. The angel knelt down and lightly touched his forehead. Sam's eyes fluttered open. He blinked, whispering Castiel's name as he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright morning light. Castiel looked up at Dean.

"He's hurt beyond my current ability to heal, but I've eased some of his pain." Standing, Castiel made his way back to the other side of the stream. "Keep him still, and I'll call the authorities."

Dean let out his breath in a rush of relief as he sank back down to the dirt next to his brother and watched the angel carefully pick his way across the stream. At the base of the slope Castiel paused, looking up at the road with a frown. After some silent contemplation he sighed deeply, and began a slow and careful ascent on foot. Dean sighed. Castiel was still grounded. There was something else to worry about.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked, grimacing even as the words left his mouth. Sam was obviously _not_ okay.

"I feel like I got hit by a bus," Sam replied hoarsely. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wincing. When he opened them again Dean could see they had regained the clarity they'd been missing for the last several hours. "What happened?" He made an attempt to sit up, which he immediately aborted.

"Bambi," Dean replied, as if this wasn't the fourth time he'd answered the question. "You're hurt pretty bad. Cas should have help here soon."

"How bad?"

"You're not going to be running any marathons any time soon."

Sam groaned and swore vengeance on venison. He started to peer under the blanket to assess his injuries himself but Dean wouldn't allow it, and then obediently lay still when instructed to do so. It didn't take too much persuasion on Dean's part. Sam was pale as parchment and despite Castiel's touch, still obviously in pain. He was, however, quite lucid, making Dean realize how much he _did_ rely on Sam, if only for moral support; he'd missed having someone to talk to during the past twenty-four plus hours.

"And the car?" Sam asked.

It took Dean a moment before he could reply. "It's totaled."

"You can fix her, you have before."

Dean smiled slightly. Even battered and broken, Sam was still the voice of optimism, but gazing out at the Impala, whose headlight had finally flickered and died, Dean could raise none himself. All he saw now was a collection of old parts. "Baby" was gone, and he didn't have enough energy left to bring her back.

"No," he said softly, nothing more.

Sam looked up at him, but Dean wouldn't meet his eyes, and he respected his brother's silence.

"Our next car," Dean said finally, his voice rough, "Is going to have seatbelts."

"And side impact airbags," Sam added. "I've got a mother of a headache."

"Join the club."

After a while they heard the wail of a distant siren and Dean found himself having to fight back tears. He'd thank God, but he knew God wasn't listening, and likely didn't care. Instead he gave silent thanks to the tiny angel who had come out of the darkness and gave him a little hope when he'd desperately needed it.

* * *

The Winchesters checked themselves out of the hospital not soon after surgery, much to the distress and horror of their doctors. Sam in particular looked as if he needed to stay for at least another week, maybe longer. His legs were held together with screws, pins, and what looked like scaffolding protruding out from his flesh. The doctors called it "external fixation" and warned him he was still in danger of losing his left foot. Sam called it torture and begged Castiel to do something, _anything_ to relieve him of it. Dean had avoided such extreme measures to fix his broken arm, needing only a metal plate and a bulky cast, but for him it was just as torturous.

Castiel assured them he could help speed up their recovery, but it wouldn't be the instant healing they were so used to, and would take a little bit of time and patience. They'd still be back on their feet far sooner than they would be healing on their own and that was good enough. Within hours after the anesthetic wore off the angel had trundled them both into his car and they were on their way home. Sam lay in the back seat doped up on painkillers, completely oblivious. Dean rode shotgun, squirming with frustrated impatience at Castiel's driving. The angel drove the speed limit – always – and the ugly yellow Lincoln's radio didn't work.

Dean glanced back at Sam. He couldn't have been comfortable even with the painkillers. He was too tall to lie perfectly flat, and all the hardware holding his legs together had to be kept as immobile as possible. So he sat up, leaning against the window, with his legs stretched out in front of him on the seat and held there with a seatbelt. He still wore a hospital robe since putting pants on over the scaffolding was impossible. At the moment his mouth was open and he was drooling. Looking at the horrible bruises on Sam's face and arms, and the hideous way his legs were swollen around the metal screws, Dean took pity on him; otherwise he might have snapped a picture to torment him with when he woke.

"Glad you had your ears on, Cas. I don't think Sam would have lasted much longer."

The angel shot him a quick glance. "You prayed?"

Dean stared back at him. "You didn't hear me?"

"No," Castiel said. "I'm still recovering. I couldn't have heard you from that distance."

"Then how…" Dean paused. "It was her," he muttered, answering his own question.

Castiel didn't hear him. "I was contacted by another angel. I saw a vision of your face, the wrecked car, and…a Reaper." With a depreciating shrug, the angel added, "Needless to say, I left immediately to find you."

"Good thing you did," Dean replied, momentarily chilled by this additional confirmation of a Reaper's presence out there in the ravine. "But you figured out where we were just from that?" he asked, doing a few mental calculations. Cas couldn't have gotten to them that quickly, not unless the child angel had bent time to deliver her message, which, given the power Dean had felt in her, she was probably quite capable of doing. He decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and didn't analyze it further.

"That and the GPS on Sam's phone," Castiel admitted. "You must have seen this angel in person for me to get such a clear impression. Did you?"

Dean recalled the waiflike child with her tangled hair and bare feet. "Yeah, she was odd, not like any other angel I've ever met. Her vessel was a child, a little girl, but she was old. I could feel it. It wasn't like Amara either. Amara is a force, like an unexploded bomb, even when she was a baby you could sense something coiled up inside her." Dean paused, shuddering a little despite himself at the thought of Amara, the Darkness. "This angel was something else. She said she'd been looking for God for a very long time."

Castiel turned to face Dean with a wholly un-Cas-like expression of shock and awe. "She was looking for God? What else did she say?"

"Why, who was she?"

"What else did she say?" Castiel demanded, returning his attention to his driving lest the Lincoln repeat the Impala's flying leap off the road.

"She….she said she was a seeker." Dean replied, scowling as he tried to recall the child's words. "The last thing she said to me was 'what is lost shall be found.'"

"Chamuel," the angel breathed, almost to himself. "It had to be."

"Who?"

"Chamuel is a very old, very powerful archangel, not seen in Heaven since God left. There were rumors that – she - followed him, and that he was somewhere on Earth, but we've had no confirmation – until now." Castiel's brow dipped into a frown. "But why now, and why did she show herself to _you_?"

"She said she felt the Darkness in me."

Castiel took a long time before he replied. "That's not necessarily a good thing," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Dean, I fear this situation with the Darkness is not going to end well."

"Well, thank you Captain Obvious," Dean said bitterly. "Tell me something I don't know."

Castiel had been around humans long enough to realize this turn of phrase was purely rhetorical, but he responded anyway. "Chamuel won't help us if that's what you're thinking, even if we could talk to her again. She specializes in lost and found, which makes her adept at _not_ being found herself."

Dean inhaled deeply, and let the breath out in a long, weary sigh. "Sam thinks we do need an archangel's help against Amara, because God has been sending him visions of the cage, telling him he needs to go back."

"To _Lucifer_?"

"Yes."

The angel grunted. "I doubt these visions are from God, but Sam might be correct."

"Cas…."

"Lucifer could only help if he were released from the cage, and provided an appropriate vessel. "

"I know, and that scares me, Cas, but Sam says he just wants to talk, find out what Lucifer knows about the Darkness."

"Do you believe him?"

Dean glanced back at Sam, reassuring himself that his brother still slept. "He would rather die than be Lucifer's bitch again, but he knows the stakes are high, and he blames himself for freeing her. If Lucifer can defeat Amara, Sam might feel like he doesn't have a choice."

Castiel stole a look at Sam in the rear-view mirror. "Right now that option is far from being on the table."

"I almost lost him back there, Cas, I can't…." Dean didn't say more. He couldn't say more, and with Castiel it wasn't necessary.

"Perhaps," Castiel said quietly, "it wasn't just the Darkness that drew Chamuel to you."

Dean snorted. "What else would it be?"

"Your heart," the angel said softly, and did not elaborate. Instead he rolled his shoulders and regarded Dean with a sideways glance. "Right now, Dean, you should be taking your own advice."

"What advice?"

"Concentrate on getting better." With that, Castiel reached over, and tapped him between the eyes.

Dean went out like a light.

He didn't wake again until they turned onto the access road leading to the Men of Letters bunker. Sam was awake too and not happy about it. Dean rubbed his eyes groggily and sat up. He wasn't feeling all that great either. The painkillers and Castiel's zap had worn off and his arm felt like it was on fire. He grimaced as he turned around to look at his brother. Sam's face was white, his expression strained, and he hissed in pain every time the Lincoln hit a pothole.

"Were you expecting company?" Castiel asked.

"What?" Dean turned around. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam lean forward so he could peer out over Castiel's shoulder. "What the…."

There was a car parked in front of the bunker, and as Castiel took the last turn, the Lincoln's headlights illuminated the long dark silhouette in a burst of brilliant white light.

"Is that the Impala?" Sam asked. "You told me it was totaled!"

"She was, and at the bottom of a ravine in Pennsylvania."

"But how….?"'

"I don't know!"

It was, without a doubt, the Impala –Dean's Baby. Her chrome gleamed, her sleek black flanks were healed and whole again, and light bounced off glass windows miraculously restored. It wasn't an illusion, or something from a dream. It was the old Chevy sitting there as if to welcome them home.

Dean was getting out of the car before Castiel came to a complete stop. He limped slowly over to the Impala and ran his hand across the hood as if reassuring himself it was real. From his pocket he retrieved his keys, the only keys in existence. However the car had gotten there it hadn't been driven. Castiel joined him as he opened the door and started the engine. She rumbled to life with a throaty roar that had always made Dean think of Marlene Dietrich. He sat there listening for a moment before he shut her off again.

"I…how…?"

"Maybe this will explain it."

There was a scrap of paper tucked under the windshield wiper. Castiel retrieved it, and handed it to Dean. Dean lifted the fold with his thumb and read the note aloud.

 _I was there long ago,_

 _To see a brave man,_

 _Ride into battle,_

 _Upon a great, black horse._

 _Is this not the Bucephalus,_

 _Of a new age?_

 _Be strong, be brave, Hunter-warrior,_

 _And when you find God,_

 _Remember me,_

 _For out of the Darkness,_

 _There shall be Light._

 _And what was lost,_

 _Shall be found._

Dean looked up to find Castiel gazing at him with a rather serene expression. "What?"

"Chamuel must have liked what she saw in you." The angel said. "We might have her help after all."

"You think so?"

"Yes," Cas stated bluntly, and he gave Dean a look that was suddenly reminiscent of the old Castiel. "I think so because I've seen it too."

Tucking the note into his pocket, Dean allowed himself a wry smile. "Thanks, Cas."

"You're welcome," the angel replied, and then threw a scowl back over his shoulder. "Now how in the Hell are we going to get Sasquatch there down the stairs?"

* * *

Chamuel Called, and finally, _finally_ , He came to her.

"Hello little one," He said.

"Hello Father."

"Chamuel," God sighed, "Archangel of Courage, Unification, and Love."

"I am as you made me," she acknowledged.

"You followed the Winchesters to find me." He waggled a finger at her. "Sneaky."

"I provide strength and courage where it is needed. I felt the need, and then I felt your presence. You had touched them, marked them, and I knew if I waited, you would return to them."

"You have that much faith in me?"

"I do!" she said fervently. "While others have lost their faith, mine has thrived here among the grandest of your creations. You might have abandoned Heaven, but you would never abandon Earth."

"I almost did," he said quietly.

"And that is why I am here, Father. You cannot deny that I am needed." She looked up at him solemnly. "There must be reconciliation! She loves you still, I can feel it."

He looked upon her for a long moment and then nodded. "I should have never underestimated your powers of perception." He then smiled, and pulled her into His embrace. "Come now with me. We can't let Dean blow himself to bits for my sake."

"I will guide him. Amara will hear what she needs to hear." She paused. "It won't be difficult. He's a good boy, Father."

"Eh," God said, chuckling. "You wouldn't say that if you saw his browser history."

Chamuel took his hand and smiled slyly, shaking her head. "I would say so still, for I saw his heart."


End file.
